“Divine judgment demands you both shut up and move,” Scar’s voice drifts from somewhere in the darkness ahead. “They’re splitting up. Two heading east, one north. Wounded one is east, leaving a blood trail a blind man could follow.”
I make the call instantly. “Scar, Wreck, Coil, take the north target. Maul, Flux, Thorn, Ruckus, east. Prospects, you’re with me. We’re tracking the wounded one.”
The brothers disappear into the forest without acknowledgment, professionals executing orders with the efficiency born from centuries of coordinated violence. I listen to them go, tracking Scar’s impossible speed, Wreck’s predatory silence, the whisper of scales against frost as Coil flows through undergrowth like water.
Then I focus on my own hunt.
The blood trail is obvious even to human eyes, dark splatters against pristine snow, each drop still steaming with residual body heat. The wounded hunter is moving fast despite his injuries, adrenaline and fear driving him forward with the desperate energy of prey that knows death follows close behind.
I shift partially, letting the dragon rise just enough to enhance my senses without committing to a full transformation. My vision sharpens, the darkness peeling back in layers until I can see individual snowflakes suspended in the air, can count the rings in tree bark from thirty yards, can track the microscopic disturbances left by a man’s passage through virgin wilderness.
Rhett moves beside me in his true form, a massive black beast that resembles a wolf only in the way a tiger resembles a housecat. His eyes burn with literal hellfire, leaving trails of orange-red light as he moves. Sulfur clings to him like cologne, sharp and acrid, making the air taste of brimstone and damnation.
Bennett takes to the air, wings beating with silent power as he rises above the canopy. Divine light spills from his feathers, turning the forest into something ethereal. He’s beautiful in the way angels are supposed to be, all glory and righteousness wrapped around a core of absolute conviction that makes mortal concepts of mercy seem naïve at best.
We track the hunter for seven minutes before I catch his scent properly—human sweat, blood, gunpowder, and beneath it all, the metallic tang of genuine terror.
He knows what’s coming.
He knows he’s already dead.
His body just hasn’t gotten the message yet.
“Found the abomination,” Bennett calls down from above, his voice carrying the kind of resonance that makes reality pause and listen. “Three hundred yards ahead. He’s stopped. Setting up an ambush position.”
Rhett’s laugh is a sound pulled straight from nightmares, echoing with the screams of countless damned souls. “Stupid… suicidal… I like him already.”
“You would,” Bennett observes from above, his tone carrying that particular brand of celestial disdain that makes me want to freeze them both solid to hear silence again. “Your kind always appreciates futile gestures toward violence.”
“Better than sitting on clouds playing harps and pretending superiority makes up for being boring as fuck.”
I don’t slow my pace, but frost explodes from my shoulders in warning. “The next word out of either of your mouths betterbe something useful, or I’m leaving both of you out here to walk home.”
They fall silent.
Smart boys.
We close the distance with predatory patience, circling our prey from three directions. I approach from the south, Rhett flows through shadows to the east, Bennett descends from above like divine judgment made flesh.
I see the hunter through gaps in the trees, crouched behind a fallen log, rifle aimed at the blood trail he left behind, expecting us to follow it blindly. His hands shake despite his obvious training, tremors born from blood loss and recognition that he’s crossed a line he can never uncross.
He’s seen us.
Seenwhatwe are.
That alone signs his death warrant.
I step into the clearing, making no effort to mask my approach. I let him see me coming. I let him understand that stealth isn’t necessary when you’re an apex predator, and your prey has nowhere left to run.
His rifle snaps up, barrel tracking my chest with decent form. Military training,probably.Special forces,maybe. It doesn’t matter. All the training in the world means nothing when you’re hunting monsters that invented warfare before his species learned to walk upright.
“I k-know what you a-are,” he spits, his voice rough with pain and defiance. Blood soaks through his jacket from where Calder’s fox-fire burned him, the wound still smoking faintly in the frigid air. “Dragons, vampires, shapeshifters… you think you own these mountains, but you’re just parasites hiding in the dark.”
Ice forms along my arms, translucent patterns racing across skin and muscle until I’m more frost than flesh. The temperaturedrops another ten degrees. His breath comes out in thick plumes, moisture freezing on his lips.
“These mountains areoursbecause wetookthem,” I growl, my voice sinking into that sub-zero register that makes human instincts scream‘run.’“Because we’ve held them for three centuries against every-fucking-thing that’s tried to pry them from our hands.You’retrespassing.Youfired on one ofmine. That’s two death sentences.” I watch his grip tighten, knuckles whitening around the rifle as panic leaks through his bravado. “Pick which one you want to die for!”
The hunter drags in a sharp breath and snaps the rifle up, fear tipping into something wild and reckless as he pulls the trigger. The crack of the shot tears through the forest, echoing off stone and ice as the bullet screams toward me.
